Along the Mosel Valley, with castles and vineyards across the water, to lunch in Cochem. Here I had Toast Hawaii, which I remembered fondly from the school German exchange (white toast topped with ham, a pineapple ring, and a slice of melted cheese) and grape juice, the next best thing to sampling the local wine.
The world seemed a better place after lunch, as it generally does, and as my bike had been behaving itself I settled back into the ride. This was Nürburgring country, on a sunny Sunday in August, and the roads were busy with bikes of all stripes. Some I overtook, some flashed past me in a blur; some returned my wave, some were too snobbish or focused.
We encountered several sets of roadworks with temporary traffic lights, where I used my London commuter skillz to filter to the front of the queue. At the first of these I waved a group of sports bikers (two were strapping Valkyries with blonde plaits emerging from their helmets) past me, since they would be quicker off the mark. I smiled at the leader, scary under his balaclava.
"You are underpowered!" he told me, smiling back.
I rather hoped they'd find the temporary road surface tough going, but they proved to be excellent riders, and gave me a nice wave when they turned off at a petrol station in the next town.
By now the group had become scattered, and I saw nobody for some time except Andy on the MP3. He was going at such a cracking pace that I was content to tuck lazily in behind him and follow, until he waved me by. To my surprise I found that only Jen was ahead of me, waiting to point us in to a petrol station. By the time the main body of the group arrived I had filled up, paid, and was smugly enjoying an ice cream sandwich.
From here it was only another 45 minutes to our hotel, although there was still time for one last set of roadworks. I was the lucky marker who got the roundabout just after these, where the road went downhill and curved back on itself, so I could wave at the others as, one by one, they were caught by the lights.
We had arrived with time to explore the cobbled and half-timbered town of Monschau, but I preferred to get straight in the promised pool, to which I had been greatly looking forward all week. It was small but lovely, and after a refreshing swim I hopped in the sauna with Jen for a lovely chat marred only by a naked woman who shushed us. (She was totally in the wrong; I have it on good, ie Scandinavian, authority that the point of a sauna is to drink beer and talk bollocks, and we were all out of beer.)
Everyone assembled in the hotel bar to walk downhill into the town for dinner at a restaurant with kitschy decor and a salad bar full of things I like, including jalapenos, olives and beetroot (what are these things you call 'fresh vegetables'?). John had collected our orders at the lunch stop so they could be prepared for us, and I was not disappointed by my trout. Afterwards we were served a mystery dessert which seemed to be pineapple chunks in a vanilla custard, followed, since it was the last night of the holiday, by speeches, thank yous and rude jokes.
We ended the evening in the hotel's games room, playing 20-year-old pinball machines which had been converted from Deutschmarks to euros and getting competitive on the tiny skittle alley. Nobody did better than seven out of the nine pins - I think my best was four - and the high point of the game was when Lynn's ball rolled gently down to the pins, knocked two of them down, then rolled politely all the way back up.
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